


The Desires A Dream Brings

by Alaynes_Mirror



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:58:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alaynes_Mirror/pseuds/Alaynes_Mirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The long years of war have passed and Lady Sansa Stark returns to Winterfell to raise the castle to its former glory. Despite her strength and maturity, however, she still sometimes feels like that frightened young girl, obeying her commands dutifully. Yet beside her is Sandor Clegane, whose presence brings Sansa ease, along with other feelings. His return also brings back to her an old dream, one of stolen kisses and a burning sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Desires A Dream Brings

Sansa sighed and read over the parchment once again. It was the latest in a long string of letters she had received from suitors asking for her hand in marriage. This one gushed about her beauty, how he longed to meet her and lavish her with flowers and precious jewels. She had never met the man. Her advisors had told her that as heir to Winterfell she must marry, and soon, to secure the Stark’s bloodline. They meant well she knew, but it made her feel like that frightened girl again, the one who never had a say in anything. The one who had been expected to always smile dutifully and do as she was bid, even when forced to marry The Imp for her claim to the North. She hated that feeling of being trapped and thought she would never have to feel it again. Not least of all here in her own home.

Winterfell had been mere rubble when Sansa first arrived back. The long years of war had ended but the aftermath was plain to see in the ruins of the castle, like scars on a warrior’s face. All that had greeted Sansa’s arrival were ashes and ghosts. But slowly, piece by piece, she and those who had returned with her managed to restore the castle to almost its former glory. And once again, laughter and warmth filled its halls, though Sansa could not entirely share it. She had duties to tend to, and the pressure to marry again was almost more than she could bear. 

_They are after my claim,_ she thought sadly. _Not my smiles or my heart._

She turned from the desk in her chambers and looked to the man standing by the fireplace. The years had worn away at Sandor Clegane, yet he still had that familiar scowl. He seemed almost smaller nowadays, more humble, and he walked with a limp. He looked older too and a little tired. The day he rode into Winterfell Sansa thought she was in a dream, as everyone had believed him dead. But he told her all that he had seen since that night in her chambers during The Battle of the Blackwater and how he had now returned to her, with the wish to be sworn into her service.

Protection was not the only thing he had brought her, however. Sansa felt strangely drawn to Sandor Clegane, though could not figure out exactly why. His presence about the castle brought her a strange sense of ease and she thought of him often whenever her mind wandered, which was frequently these days. He alone knew what she had seen, what she had been through. It was he who watched over her while she slept, and when she awoke from lion stalked nightmares it was he who was there to calm her. In return she too understood him more than anyone else, which had been the case ever since she was a young girl. He opened up to her and only her. There was a definite bond between the two of them.

Perhaps it was this, then, that had beckoned him back into her dreams. Conjured out of clouds and stars he came to her once more and one night she dreamt again of the way he had kissed her when the sky had caught fire. She had not dreamt of this memory in years and it had awoken something in Sansa. Something that made her heart pound.

Sandor turned away from the flames and came to sit beside her.

“Another one?” He asked, indicating towards the letter.

Sansa nodded and handed it to him. He scanned the content. “No singer could write a song to match your beauty,” he read, snorting. “What a load of shit.”

Sansa laughed at his bluntness and the truthfulness of his statement. Once, the letter would have sent her heart racing, but she was wary of songs now, she knew how they lied and so did The Hound. 

“More wine?” She asked, still smiling. Sandor nodded. She got up from her chair and took to filling two goblets with warm spiced wine. When she turned around she was surprised to see him studying her figure. Her heartbeat quickened and she suddenly felt very aware of how thin her night gown was, how parts of it clung to her curves. A mischievous part of her was a little pleased at his reaction. She handed a cup to him and took a sip from hers, sitting back down. 

Despite their closeness, there was one thing that Sansa had never had the courage to ask him about, but tonight she felt a little bolder. _Perhaps it is the wine,_ she thought. _Or perhaps it is Winterfell._

She took a deep breath. “Sandor,” she began.

He grunted in response, taking a deep swig from his goblet, unabashed by her using his first name. 

Sansa’s thumb grazed the direwolf engraved on the side of her cup. “That night in my chambers... Do you remember when you kissed me?”

There was only silence for a few moments and Sansa felt herself growing red. Sandor stared at her with a puzzled expression. “Aye, I was blind drunk that night, I admit, but I would remember if I’d kissed you, girl.”

Sansa quickly looked away, trying to hide her shock. _But he must have,_ she thought. _Why else would I keep remembering the feel of his lips?_

She now found her attention being drawn to his mouth and averted her gaze, taking a larger sip of her wine. She had only asked because he had never mentioned it when they spoke of the past and it seemed like he didn’t remember either. She had only wanted to hear him talk about the kiss, not have him deny it ever happened.

He was still looking at her, puzzled. “What got that into your head?”

Sansa blushed furiously, fidgeting with her sleeve, remembering the countless times she’d dreamt of a shadowed man in bed with her and how every time a rasping voice would fill the darkness and the man would transform into Sandor and kiss her with that cruel mouth of his. 

“I... Sometimes I remembered how you had done it. But I suppose I must have simply dreamt it.” _After all,_ she thought. _Sandor Clegane would not lie about this, he does not lie._

He leaned closer to her, a sudden mischievous smile spreading across his face. “So the lady wolf fancies herself a dog does she?” He snorted and stood up, taking another swig of his wine that finished the cup. “Not bloody likely.”

Sansa’s jaw tightened at his words. Was he making fun of her? _No,_ she thought, _he wouldn’t._ Her tummy fluttered nervously but she rose to face him. 

“I still dream of it,” she said. “Even now.”

She was close to him, closer than ever before, she could smell the cinnamon on his breath from the wine. How many times had she seen his face, lurking in the depths of the darkness in her dreams? But Sandor Clegane looked away, frowning slightly, all traces of his smile gone.

“You don’t want this, girl. You don’t,” he said, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“I _do,_ ” she pressed. Why did he not understand? 

But a cold wave of panic washed through Sansa. Perhaps he did not want her. She felt her heart begin to pound as she realised how foolish she had been, she had thought she understood the way he looked at her now. But perhaps he still saw her as a silly girl, or thought her ugly. She had been so sure he shared the same feelings as her. In the end she really was still a foolish girl after all, with foolish thoughts and foolish dreams.

Tears prickled Sansa’s eyes but she tried to collect herself and be brave. _Like my lady mother,_ she thought, and that gave her strength. 

Knowing she needed to hear the truth, she took a deep breath. “Is it that you don’t want me? Tell me truthfully.”

Sandor stared at her, stunned. “Has that wine gone to your head already? Of course I bloody want you.”

His hands gripped her shoulders. “I’ve wanted you for longer than you know. Since you were younger, you...” He seemed to be struggling with his words, trying to make sense of his feelings. “You were young, too young, but you looked so bloody tempting all the time. And you were always so naive, _so naive,_ but you were brave and kind. And you were sweet, aye, sweet to look upon and you still are. More so now, you have a woman’s look. I knew you’d always be sweet to touch, too.”

At this Sandor ran one hand down her side and let it rest on her waist. Sansa’s heartbeat quickened at this movement, and at his sudden speech. He had been attracted to her in King’s Landing? It was true, even back then her thoughts would often turn to The Hound, though not in a romantic way. Had he dreamed they had kissed too? 

Feeling hope rising in her chest, Sansa tried to shed more light on her feelings too.

“You’re the only one who’s ever truly stood by my side when we were in King’s Landing and you watched over me and tried to warn me of the dangers all around. And you don’t scare me Sandor, I know you as you know me. You don’t care about my claim to the North. You just see me for _me._ ” 

Sansa noticed that Sandor was closer to her now, his dark eyes seemed full of want, but he remained hesitant. Feeling bold, Sansa leaned in again, feeling her heart thumping beneath her night gown. She pressed her lips to his and it was just how she remembered it, but this kiss was softer and she knew he was still unsure, though his hold on her was still tight, his lips full of hunger. Sansa was completely enveloped in the feeling, she had not been kissed like this before. They were always stolen, unwilling or without love. But this was making a warmth spread through Sansa’s body and without realising it, she emitted a small noise at the back of her throat. At this, Sandor groaned and opened his mouth to hers, pulling her towards him. He stumbled back onto the bed and she sat on top of him feeling the warmth begin to ache inside her. But again his reluctance rose and he broke the kiss, breathing heavily. They sat in silence for a while, Sansa confused and Sandor with his head bent low. 

“But that’s just it, girl. You’re the heir to Winterfell, a highborn lady.” The corner of his mouth twitched on its burnt side and he looked away. “Why waste your time with a dog like me.”

Sansa stared at him incredulously, angered at this until she saw the painful look in his eyes and finally understood why he was so hesitant. She remembered the way she had felt tears dampening his cheeks as she had sung for him, the way he tore off his cloak and knew it was that same feeling that Sandor had now.

Sansa realised now what he needed to make him see. She did not know why she knew this, yet she did all the same. Sansa got up and knelt by a large wooden chest at the end of her bed. It was in here that she hoarded treasures from her past. There were letters from her parents from when she was young, a doll that Jeyne had made for her, wooden carvings of a pack of direwolves and finally she found what she was looking for. She pulled it out of the chest and checked that Sandor was still looking away before she wrapped the cloak around her. Once upon a time it had been white, but it was how she remembered it now; blood-stained and grey, and time had faded the crown etched into the rough material, yet Sansa still felt protected wearing it.

As Sansa walked slowly towards the bed where Sandor lay, she was aware of the fact that the last time she had worn this she had been frightened and alone, a little girl curled up on the floor, waiting and pleading for the screams outside her window to stop. But now she walked towards Sandor Clegane as a woman, her auburn hair reaching her waist, her heart fluttering but her face was set, her blue eyes gentle and calm.

His look was still one of sadness and it made Sansa’s heart heavy to see. She got onto the bed, crawled towards him and sat on his lap again, watching as Sandor’s hands tightened ever so slightly on the sheets.

Sansa watched the man before her, taking all of him in. She looked at the way Sandor’s scars were like small spider’s webs, knotted and twisted, a mass of red and white on one side of his face. She looked at the deep lines in his skin, the years etched into them. She looked at his lips and thought she saw them give the slightest quiver. Finally she gazed into his eyes, noting how up close there were flickers of a deep, rich hazel.

“Look at me,” she murmured.

Reluctantly, and still frowning, he did so, but his sullen expression melted as he saw what she wore around her shoulders. His lips parted slightly in surprise and he touched the fabric, as if checking it was what he knew it was. 

He looked up at her, confusion plain on his face. “Why?” He said.

Sansa did not know how to tell him what she was feeling, nor how to explain why she still had the cloak, so she did the only thing she could think of, what her younger self had done all those years ago. She reached up and touched his scarred cheek with her hand. Sandor’s eyes widened slightly and he looked at her in wonder. She leant forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. He returned the kiss, as though both of them were holding something fragile between the two of them, afraid of breaking it. But Sansa felt something stir again within her and she drew him closer to her. He wrapped his arms around her, burying one hand in her long auburn hair. Sansa kissed him deeper, full of a longing she had not known existed in her. Eventually Sandor lay her down onto the bed with that oddly gentle touch he always had with her and propped himself up on his elbows.

“If you...” his voice sounded thick. “Do you really want this? With... With me?”

Sansa nodded, feeling her heart quicken. _She wanted this._ The freedom and simplicity of the thought was so refreshing to her. No one was making her do this, no one was forcing him on her, she _wanted_ him.

He kissed her again, but Sansa could still feel the tension in his body, his great arms trembling with the effort of restraining himself. She frowned, for while she was grateful he was taking it slowly, she wanted to remind him that he did not scare her, that he could be himself. _I am a woman grown,_ she thought to herself. _Not a frightened girl._ She kissed him again and as she did so, she playfully bit his bottom lip. Sandor groaned, giving way to a low laugh. 

“So the lady wolf has fangs, does she?” He grinned, pressing himself more firmly on top of her and Sansa smiled triumphantly back.

Giving away her maidenhead was, of course, a daunting thing. Sansa knew it was going to hurt and she was nervous, but she was not afraid, as she thought she might be when this moment finally came. She remembered standing before Tyrion Lannister on their wedding night, his eyes roaming across her body and feeling cold terror wash through her at the thought of the pain she would feel as he entered her. It was something she had been aware of with Littlefinger too. The way he eyed the curves of her body had made her uncomfortable, not to mention the way he kept wanting to kiss her, despite her protests. It was small wonder, then, that Sansa had been terrified that this was what it would be like to lose her maidenhead, that all she would ever feel was fear and a wish for it to be over quickly.

She had not expected it to feel like _this,_ to _want_ Sandor to touch her, to feel him inside her, a need for him to be closer still to her body. But as Sandor began to undo the buttons on her thin nightgown she felt a nervous fluttering in her tummy and her heart pounded as he pulled it off, leaving her naked as her nameday before him. His eyes were hungry as he drank in the sight of her pale, slender body, but there was a softness too, a warmth in the way he gazed at her.

He ran a hand up the length of her stomach and onto her chest. Sansa shuddered with pleasure as his fingers encircled around one of her nipples, stiffening under his touch, and she saw Sandor looking surprised. She felt a stab of fear. Had she done something wrong?

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said quickly. “It felt... I’m sorry, it was just very...” 

Sandor’s eyes widened slightly and his surprised expression intensified. “What is it? What did it feel like?”

Sansa felt heat rise to her cheeks as she tried to describe it. “It felt... good.”

Relief was apparent on Sandor’s face. “Then how does this feel?” He lowered his mouth to her breast and Sansa gave a small gasp as his lips closed around her nipple, moving his tongue back and forth. Sansa felt the throbbing in her body grow stronger and she moaned.

Eager over her positive response, Sandor put his lips to her delicate neck and kissed, hard, and Sansa felt his teeth graze her skin, giving her goose bumps. He continued half kissing half biting her neck in a way that made Sansa subconsciously arch her body towards him. He nibbled her ear lobe before he began feverishly kissing his way down her body. The sensation felt like nothing Sansa had ever felt before, even the roughness of his skin on hers added to the strong waves of pleasure she felt pulse through her body.

She was dimly aware however, that Sandor was still dressed and she began tugging at his shirt. He laughed, threw it to the floor and sat back, allowing her to look at him properly. Sansa gasped at the thousands of scars that criss-crossed across his skin. She reached out and touched them, feeling goose bumps rise in Sandor’s skin as she did so. But she was also aware of the strong muscular feel of his body beneath her hand and she ran her fingers through the curled hair on his chest. Sandor rolled his head back as she did this and Sansa grinned at the effect her touch had on him. With a slight nervousness, Sansa then lent forward and kissed his neck as he had with her. Sandor groaned and exposed more of his neck for her. She obeyed eagerly, working her way down his chest, feeling his quickened heartbeat. Then, with a rush of bold curiosity, she reached out and touched the hardness between his legs, separated from her only by a thin layer of cloth. Sansa’s mouth opened slightly at how big he was and felt her tummy flutter with nerves, but with it came another pang of longing. He stiffened beneath her and she began to move her hand back and forth, all the while watching his reaction. His breathing had become heavier and he looked almost pained in the moonlight as he groaned with pleasure. 

After a while, however, Sandor huffed with mock irritation and pinned her down, chuckling low in his throat as she squirmed, but she stopped soon enough as he continued to kiss her chest, up her thigh and down her neck. All the while his fingers had begun to travel further down her body and found the place that made Sansa shudder again with pleasure.

He laughed softly. “If I’d known this morning that I would be spending the night with Lady Sansa Stark, who would be as wet and wanton as anything, I would have said I’d gone mad.”

Sansa laughed, but it turned into another moan as Sandor’s movements became faster and more intense. She lost herself in the feel of his touch, of his skin on hers. She pulled him closer, almost desperately, so his hardness touched where she wanted him, needing it to stop the throbbing that was becoming too much to bear, so highly strung did her body feel.

“Please, Sandor,” she moaned, feeling an aching emptiness inside her that wanted him there, _needed_ him.

Again she saw that odd, surprised way he looked at her, before he grinned and lowered himself onto her.

*****

Afterwards Sansa lay curled in his arms, protective around her. There was a dull pain now between her legs, but it was mingled with pleasure and a sleepy happiness. Sandor had his eyes closed but Sansa was tracing the scars on his chest one by one, still amazed he had so many. She wondered how painful they must have been, the one on his leg especially, which had affected his walk and which would never heal properly. 

“Do they ever hurt?” Sansa asked, moving her head to settle on his chest.

“Not much,” Sandor replied.

“What about your burns?”

Sandor paused for a while before replying. “Not really.”

Sansa nodded, relieved this was the case. She then sighed and thought back to how being with him had felt, wondering how she could ever have felt afraid over something that could be so pleasurable. She then remembered how occasionally he had looked at her with a surprised expression. She propped herself up on her elbow, looking at him curiously. Aware of her gaze, but too tired to move, Sandor merely opened one eye and looked at her expectantly.

“When we were um...” Sansa trailed off, blushing. “Earlier when you and I...”

Sandor laughed at her shyness. “When we were fucking, you mean?”

Sansa pouted indignantly. “When we were _making love_...”

Sandor laughed louder at this and pulled her a little closer to him.

“You looked, well... surprised sometimes at my reaction to... what you were doing,” Sansa continued. “Why was that? I’m sure I’m not the first woman you’ve... been with.”

Sandor’s smile faded and he studied the ceiling for a few moments. “No woman in her right mind would ever want me to touch her and not one ever has. It’s always been my gold they were after, not my cock or my kiss. ” He looked at her again. “So I was surprised that you did. It felt... good.”

Sansa smiled at him. She felt exactly the same, knowing that Sandor wanted her for her. Not for her claim, for Winterfell, not for gold, not for her maidenhead. But for all of her. 

She settled back onto his chest and wrapped her arm around his neck.

As Sansa lay there, entwined with Sandor Clegane, she sighed happily. She was back where she belonged, in Winterfell. She was no longer locked away, no longer having to look fearfully behind her or wonder who to trust. She did not have lines to remember anymore, courtesies to recite, smiles to act out. She would do as she saw fit and therefore refused to be a prisoner in her own home. When she married, it would be for love, not for politics. Though the path she had chosen would not be easy, and there would surely be dark times ahead, she was not afraid. 

She was Sansa Stark, the daughter of the North and she was home.


End file.
